A Story of More Woe
by Christini
Summary: For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo...' Romeo and Juliet five years on. Not quite the greatest love story ever told.
1. Chapter 1

**Would it have worked out? I doubt it.**

**My alternative take on the real tragedy of Romeo and Juliet.**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Romeo and Juliet. They don't belong to me. They don't actually belong to Shakespeare, either, seeing as how he based the play on a poem written years before. However, some of the other characters _are_ Shakespeare's (and some are mine in this one!)**

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The vial of poison was clutched in his hand, the fragile glass thin in his fist. He had every intention of drinking it as he looked at her, beautiful, still, in death. Life without her would be so meaningless, so futile, so worthless...

He refused to accept it, she couldn't be dead, not when she was so full of life when he left – and died of grief for _that_ man? It was impossible, illogical...

He gazed once more at her frozen face, perfection caught like a painting, a master piece, no less. Her eyes were shut, her long lashes matted together, he caught his breath in his throat, it hurt too much. Had he caused this? Would he be held accountable for the death of the only woman he had ever truly loved? A feeling of guilt wracked his body and he could feel silent tears of anguish building in his eyes, her face became blurred, her features distorted – did she just move or was it the tears?

"Romeo?" It was a whisper, in her voice, deathly quiet and hoarse.

"Juliet?" he replied, his hand finding hers, poison dropped, the vial smashed, unneeded onto the floor, his fingers laced through hers. Her hand was warming, the blood returning to the veins from her beating heart once more, "My God, Juliet..."

"It worked," she spoke earnestly and joyfully, "The friar, I was so scared I wouldn't wake to see your face."

"But I thought you were dead," his voice wavered, surprising himself, "I would never have thought... I hoped, God, I hoped with all the heart I had left that you were not really taken from me..."

"I am your wife; I would never be taken from you by anything less than God himself."

"And I, as your husband, would go to God and demand you be given back."

They exchanged these vows of loyalty to each other with unsurpassed confidence blazing through their eyes. They knew they were safe now, and nothing could ever take them apart.

**Mantua**

**5 years later.**

Mercutio, Tybalt and Paris; the names of the three men who were the last victims of the feud were the first words on Juliet's lips that morning, five years after their escape to Mantua. It was a small act of duty to the dead when she laid flowers at the church there. It was not Verona, and there was no recognition of to whom the flowers belonged, but those in God's kingdom would surely be able to find them in whichever of His houses she left them in.

Romeo had not accompanied her, he didn't know of her secret pilgrimage, especially as two of the men had died by his hand. At the time she had tried to feel some form of resentment towards him, but found her heart could hold nothing but love. But now... some of that love seemed to have burnt itself out, as much as she was loath to admit it, and she had room for those feelings of betrayal. She had learnt to accept that she was married to a murderer – the death of Tybalt, her cousin, had been easier to forgive. She had never liked him, as young as she was; she had always noticed something violent and murderous about him. Paris, however, was a different matter. As much as she'd feared marriage to him he was a good man, gentle and kind, if somewhat overbearing. He had thought that she loved him, and perhaps she could have, if not for Romeo. If she had lived her life with Paris she would never have known the depth of feeling she had experienced with her husband – but that feeling was something she would never regret.

She was reclining on her bed, too tired to move, her hands resting on top of her swollen stomach, the baby inside seeming to drain all the energy out of her. A new brother or sister to their daughter, their beautiful Angela who was four and four months, she would be pleased. There had been other pregnancies, other hopes for children, but all had ended in miscarriages, and she had prayed every day of this one that this child would be the lucky one, the one to survive, it wouldn't be long now. The baby's movements were almost constant now, as though it couldn't wait to be rid of the flesh of its mother that surrounded it. She hoped it was a boy.

"Juliet!" Romeo was calling her, but she could not find the energy to respond. He would have to come up and tell her personally. She was so tired. There was the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. His, she could tell, she had become adept at working out the sounds of the house. He pushed open the door, and his eyes rested on her.

She looked as though all the life had been taken out of her. She had managed well enough with the first pregnancy, the birth, he had heard, had been difficult, but he had never seen her looking so... old. He tried to smile, but feared that a look of pity was emerging on his face instead. It was hard to think of the time before this, when she had looked so beautiful, when her very being positively radiated light and life. Although new life was the reason that she looked this way, it looked set to be the death of her.

"What was it?" she asked, concerned about the twisted expression on his face.

"Nothing... I just..." he still wouldn't dare to say anything that might hurt her.

Romeo still looked like he had walked out of a painting by a master. His face was angular and strong, his body well built and perfect. The sight of him was enough to make anyone fall in love, and Juliet just kept falling in love with him all over again. If ever she doubted her feelings towards Romeo, she just had to be with him. It was enough for anyone to fall in love with him.

"Are you doing well?"

"Yes... everything's fine. Nurse is taking excellent care of me – and Angela."

"She looks more like you every day." He murmured.

"But she has your eyes and ears."

"If you insist," he smiled, and then remembered why he had come, "I was going to visit Friar Lawrence, he told me he was visiting Mantua for the day, so I thought I should see him."

"Send him my greetings, and tell him that, as always, I remain ever grateful for what he did for us."

"I shall tell him that to the very word,"

"As if you would dare say anything else!" she retorted, teasing him gently.

"I'll be off now, love," he said, leaning over to kiss her on her forehead – the skin felt clammy and his lips were instantly repelled by it.

This was Juliet, he was forced to remind himself, Juliet your wife, the woman you were prepared to die for... but that was a long time ago now.

She noted the pained look in his eyes as he backed out of the room – the looks of regret and of worry, and he knew that she recognised it. Romeo looked as though he was about to say something else, before shaking his head and almost running down the stairs. He was scared. And so was she.

---

The birth was painful, Juliet had been up the whole night crying as though her soul was being ripped from her body, but finally it was over. The pain, though, had been nothing compared to the feeling of betrayal she had felt when, after the tiny boy had slipped out of her body, alive and crying, that Romeo was not there.

She had not seen him for five days, not since he said he had been to see Friar Lawrence, not since she had caught him looking at her in that pitiful way, that image was now burned into her skull, it kept coming back every time she tried to think of her husband.

"He's a man," the nurse had consoled her unspoken words of disappointment, "men do these things, they forget, their minds are not set right in their heads. I remember well my husband, god rest his soul, he would go out for a walk and come back three days later with a hole through his foot... heaven knows how that one happened..."

"He's not just a man, he's Romeo," she had protested, weakly, "he's my husband, he should be here. It is his duty to be here, by my side."

"Sweet, things do not always happen the way they should. You should not have ever fallen for a Montague. He should not have loved a Capulet – but yet these things happen. But enough of that – your son cries out. He needs you." She indicated the tiny child in Juliet's arms and Romeo's faithful wife tended to their sons needs. If Romeo didn't want to be a part of his life, she would have to be all that the child needed.

---

Romeo had arrived back the next morning, with a headache and a cut from a sword that he had done his best to cover up, but nothing could escape Juliet's gaze as she viewed her husband that day. She said nothing, she made no accusations of infidelity, no interrogation as to where he had been, and she demanded no apology. She merely presented to him the child and announced that his name was Paris.

He had been quick to conceal the look of shock on his face when she informed him, just as she had been careful to hide the glow of triumph she felt emerging onto hers. She knew she had hit a sensitive mark, and she was pleased, pleased partly because it showed he still had feelings enough for remorse, or regret, but also because of the rush of joy she found when realising that she was exacting her revenge.

She knew she would have rather she died than be wedded to Paris, but she had never wished for Paris's own death.

"How was Friar Lawrence?" she asked, determined to be sweet and innocent.

"He was well; he gives his blessings to you and the baby."

"I am glad. Will he inform our families?"

"Our families no longer belong to us – they cast us out – why would our children be of any concern to them?"

"I don't know... what could the son of the only heir to the Capulets and the only heir to the Montagues do?" a smile grew on her face, "He can unite Verona in ways that only we have ever dreamed of," Although uniting their city had never been in their minds, she noted quietly, all they had cared about was themselves. Too wrapped up in their own wants and desires to care for a city. The feud had, on the surface, been destroyed. They had run away to Mantua to be free from it, and from their overbearing parents, but they knew that behind the elaborate facade of friendship that had been displayed there was always going to be unrest, simmering just below the surface. All that it would take would be someone, not unlike Tybalt, to scratch at the wound before it bled openly again.

The tiny boy that lay in her arms could do so much and he would have so much to do.

The two houses had lost both their heirs, in a manner of speaking, the Prince's decree of banishment still stood and Juliet would never have dared to face her family on her own, without Romeo by her side. Both Capulets and Montagues had fallen into ill favour with the Prince, at any rate, as he blamed them and their feud for the death of Mercutio and Paris, both kinsmen of his. His feelings of bitterness against the omnipresent war in Verona's streets were made clear after their departure. They had been informed by the friar that it wasn't so much their relationship that had caused the feud to halt, but the Prince's threats to execute anyone seen to be pursuing bloodshed.

---

He had wanted to call him Mercutio. Romeo still mourned for the loss of his friend, and his friend's wit. He missed the way Mercutio could always brighten up his day with a sometimes coarse, but always amusing joke; he missed his ability to laugh, even in the face of death. Romeo hadn't laughed when he was about to die, rather he wept. He didn't die though, yet still the tears threatened to emerge. What had he done to deserve this? A malicious wife, fading every day but determined to pull him down with her, one son, named after a man he murdered and no true friends. Benvolio had abandoned him to focus on creating a Verona free from violence, a Verona where he was not allowed to set foot. Life had dealt him, as always, the worst cards. Juliet had been the best time of his existence – but all that was left of the Juliet he truly loved were memories – memories that were vanishing in front of him.

He should have felt guilty for missing the birth of his child; he should have been to church and confessed about how he had betrayed his wife with women he didn't even know. He ought to tell Juliet and beg for her forgiveness. Had Friar Lawrence known what he went and did in the days after he met up with him, he was under no illusions about the anger than would have been directed towards him. He did regret deceiving his mentor; he did feel ashamed for not confiding in him.

It wasn't exactly as though Juliet had been a good wife and stayed at home all the time, though, was it? He knew she sometimes went out during the day, he wouldn't know her whereabouts for hours, he would only know that somehow he would come back to find her not home. Was she, too, being unfaithful? He couldn't help but wonder.

They were dangerous thoughts.

---

Sometimes, when Juliet lay next to Romeo she could see his flaws. She noted how his nose seemed to be too large, how his eyes squinted a little, how the top of his arms were marked with spots. She often found she could not recall the image of perfection she had once seen him as, although given a few days apart she remembered again.

One day she noticed a particular commotion outside her window, and she rose to see what was happening, out of sheer curiosity. Two covered carts had pulled up outside the house next door. They contained household possessions and other furniture, it became clear that someone was about to inhabit the previously abandoned house. Juliet rarely spoke to anyone in Mantua save for Romeo, her nurse and her child – or children now. She was not brought up to be naturally sociable, she was there to display as a prize, almost, by her parents. It had been breathtaking when Romeo had spoken of her, when she had found the courage to speak to him and they held a conversation, with him speaking to her like she existed in some context other than her father's daughter.

She had, however, taken to wandering about the city, she liked to know where she was and see people going about their day with an air of ignorance about the world above them.

The man who stepped out of the first cart had the air of junior nobility about him. His posture suggested power, but his attire told an observant viewer otherwise. His cloak had obviously seen better days, and the shoes on his feet were falling apart.

His face was shadowed in the start of a beard that looked out of place. She could make out dark lines under his eyes, he had obviously experienced many sleepless nights. Looking again she realised that despite the signs of tiredness marking his face, he was young. Possibly even younger than Romeo, she realised, with a start. He did not compare with Romeo's looks, even with his recently developed flaws, the newcomers face seemed out of proportion, the nose turned up obviously and his cheeks were undefined and round. He wasn't handsome, not by a long way, but he was.... intriguing.

His eyes looked up to the window where she stood and, for a brief second, they locked. A small curve emerged on his lips and she quickly averted her gaze. But the pull she felt from the strange man was too much, she turned back to look at him, he was still focussed on her window.

Their eyes met for a second time. Romeo was not in the house, he hardly ever was during the day, she broke contact and turned. She emerged out of the front of the house and stopped when she saw him.

"Hello," she began, an awkward start, "Are you going to live here?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes were laughing at her unease, "I take it you reside in that house," he indicated the window where she had been standing.

"Yes, yes, I do," she stopped, "My name is Juliet."

"An honour to meet you, Juliet, I am Angelo."

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	2. Chapter 2

**What makes a true tragedy? What shapes our understanding of the word? How do we know that Shakespeare's version would have been the true tragedy of Romeo and Juliet?**

**This chapter is a tad shorter than my previous one. Still... enjoy!**

**Disclaimer etc – Guess what? I don't own Romeo, Juliet or the entourage of characters found in 'the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet' but I do claim Angelo and their children as my own. **

"An honour to meet you, Juliet, I am Angelo."

Angelo. Juliet marvelled at the coincidence that gave this stranger the same name as her daughter.

"Are you new to Mantua?" she inquired, attempting to make small talk.

"I am, I come from Siena," he said.

"You must have had a tiring journey!" she exclaimed, "I'm sorry, I'm preventing you from doing anything – you will welcome a rest, no doubt."

"Not at all," Angelo insisted, "for these are sorry times if young men are exhausted after merely sitting in a cart."

Juliet laughed, the first time she had done so in a long time, she liked his manner, he had a friendly way about him, a way that made her instinctively warm up to him. Which was why, as a married woman, she would leave now.

"I should really be getting back – I have two young children to look after," she apologised, forcing herself to step back when she wanted nothing more than to stay, to find out more about the mysterious Angelo.

"I see, it is actually I who is disturbing you from your duties," his smile seemed a little forced, but she hardly noticed, "I do apologise." She was about to protest in earnest, but he moved away, back to his cart before she could say anything else.

She surprised herself be being disappointed by his reluctance to continue the conversation. She knew she ought not care for another man's conversation – but she found that Romeo, now their lovers talk had diminished, walk severely lacking in communicative abilities beyond those of idle chatter, topics that she might well discuss with anyone.

She thrust all thoughts of the man out of her mind, knowing full well how just dangerous those kind of feelings could be.

---

Paris was a troubled baby. He would cry for hours on end, and then fall deathly silent, he would often lie unmoving in his cradle, almost as though he were dead. He caused a great amount of worry for Juliet, his difficulties appeared to be a bad omen – maybe the child knew of the fate of his namesake? Maybe he knew the fate of his parents? Maybe he knew that the world he had come into was not the protected and sheltered one of his mother's womb?

For all Juliet's attempts at mothering, the Nurse knew that neither of the children would be alive were it not for her expertise and guidance. Her Juliet was still a child herself – a strange child, forced to grow up too quickly. The nurse saw that now. The gift of hindsight was indeed a wonderful thing. She had been so eager for her Juliet to marry, so eager for her to grow up and become a woman in the word and so it was only poetic justice that left her caring for Juliet's children, wishing with all her heart that she could change time.

---

The gift of hindsight was a wonderful thing. If only Romeo had known the truth about marriage, about how Juliet would become after only five years, it shouldn't have had to happen to him. He was not only remarkably handsome but remarkably well aware of the fact. He was still living through the best years of his life, and he was determined to live them to the full. This was why he currently found himself in the presence of a beautiful young girl named Antonia. She had practically tripped over herself to find an opportunity to talk to him – his success with Juliet had given him a confident and far more attractive demeanour. She sat next to him, their bodies closely intertwined, as he spoke to men in the tavern.

Suddenly he became bored of the meaningless chatter and stood up, He offered his hand to Antonia who took his arm and wrapped herself seductively around him, Romeo could not help but enjoy the attention. They walked to a desolate stable where Antonia began to take her shoes off and then brazenly demanded payment from Romeo.

Of course.

---

"When will Uncle Benvolio come next?" inquired Angela, cocking her head to one side in the inquisitive manner that is the nature of most young children.

"I do not know, my Angelina," her mother replied, using the diminutive. Little angel.

"I hope it's soon." She replied, "he promised he would get me a present."

"That was nice of him," Juliet said, absent minded

"Mama, why can we not visit Uncle Benvolio?"

Juliet sighed inwardly, always the relentless questions. Always the unanswerable ones.

"Mama?"

"Uncle Benvolio doesn't have a very nice house, darling." She lied to her daughter. What was she supposed to say? _Your papa is a murderer who killed two men so we've been exiled from the city. _She could imagine the effect that would have on her fragile little angel. There was, for a few brief and blissful seconds, a silence as Angela contemplated this newly divulged information.

"But he told me he had a really big house." She said, slowly, much to her mother's distress.

"Maybe Uncle Benvolio told a tiny little lie, to impress you, no?" she suggested.

"Why?" she resorted to the final, universally dreaded question.

"Because." Juliet resorted to the final, universally dreaded answer.

---

They lay together in bed, because that is the duty of a husband and wife, and neither wished to admit to the other that they found this duty both pointless and irksome. The facade of marriage was one that both were determined to keep up – for it would be a sin not to, being legally bound – for the sake of their reputations. Occasionally they even spoke, as Juliet did them to her husband.

"Romeo?"

"What?" he was not best pleased. He had nearly got to sleep with pleasant dreams of Antonia.  
"Angela has been asking questions about why we do not visit Verona?"

"What am I supposed to do about it?" Romeo asked, obviously disinterested, and he turned over in the bed so he was not facing her.

Juliet almost screamed. She almost lost her temper completely and almost wanted to strike him with whatever she had in her grasp. She wanted him to know what he was doing to her. She wanted him to know that it was not just those two men he was guilty of murdering. She could imagine her speech – _Romeo, you are immature and childlike and you are supposed to be my husband. I love you and I have been a good wife to you all these years – but you care not! Your own children barely know you for you are always somewhere else. Have I ever asked you where you have been? Have I ever made comment on the state you return home in? Have I ever even mentioned to you that this past year I have heard you mutter the names of eleven different women in your sleep? I remember all of them, Romeo, every single one! It used to be me! Every night for the first few years of our marriage it was always me! What happened to me? Am I not your wife? Are you not my husband? Does Friar Lawrence, your mentor, the good churchman know of this? What do you think he would say? Would you listen to him as you do not listen to me? Do you listen to me now?_

"I don't know," she replied, instead, wondering if he could even hear the tears in her voice, "foolish of me to bother you."

He probably wasn't already asleep. He was just very good at pretending.

---

He had finally come to the conclusion that he didn't love her. He wanted her and she wanted him – that wasn't love. It was certainly an infatuation, a fascination because here was a woman, a girl, who was the most beautiful object he had ever seen. And then that object became real - realer than anyone else, far realer than Rosaline – and professed her love for him.

If that was love, it would not have died like that. If that was love it was still be burning now. He had made a serious mistake.

Perhaps he ought to have met Juliet a few more times before they married... His foolishness had been his downfall, his youth and inability to think, so blinded was he by lust, and that he knew now he only had himself to blame.

---

Maybe, in another world, Juliet Montague and the mysterious Angelo from the house next to her could have spoken freely to one another. Maybe, in that other world, Juliet would have been able to invite him to dine at her house when her husband was out, or be able to knock on his door and enquire as to his welfare. Perhaps Angelo could have met her children and they could have got to know him – liking him far more than their own father.

Maybe they would not have had to resort to coincidence allowing them to exit their house at the same time, or let Juliet be picking herbs from her own garden and Angelo reading in his simultaneously and they would then be able to exchange a few words as to the weather or the demands of children.

As it was, they were both stuck in the world they had been born into, and it was in that world that Juliet went into her garden armed with a kitchen knife to find some basil.

"Sometimes I think there is nothing more beautiful that the last rays of a dying sun," Angelo sighed poetically and added, "or more tragic."

"But with the knowledge that the sun will rise again the next day, surely the sight loses some of this tragedy you talk about."

"Ah! But does the sun itself know it should rise again?" he mused, frowning, then scribbling something in the notebook in his hands.

"It has been doing so ever since the Lord created the earth, so one would have to assume it does." Juliet replied, solidly, and Angelo wrote more.

_Some appear to have no scope for metaphorical tragedy so apparent in nature._

"And how are your children?" he asked, perhaps giving up in his task to open her mind to new ways of seeing things, "are you and your husband well?"

"Paris appears to have some mild ailment – but I am sure it is nothing Nurse cannot take care of. The rest of us are well. And yourself?"

"I am well, too, I find Mantua a far nicer place than Siena. It is much more welcoming."

"It is indeed – for we came from Verona five years gone."

"I have never happened upon Verona in my travels," he mused

"I shall tell you now that you miss nothing that can be found in any other city in Italy. When I left it was a godless place, torn apart by blood and hatred." Angelo noted her bitter tone and detected that this was probably a young woman who did indeed know tragedy. He wrote a little more.

_And even when a man or woman can easily find evidence in their own lives, they fail to apply this thinking to anything that is not human._

"I hear Paris crying, and Nurse is out, I ought to tend to him." Juliet said, suddenly, walking away from the garden leaving the basil leaves intact.

Angelo strained his ears but he could hear no baby's cry. Only the faint sound of carts in the street reached his ears.

He opened a new page, a blank page, as thoughts began to tumble into his mind.

_Sometimes, people pretend to see things that are not there, for reasons only they themselves fully understand. Sometimes they like to pretend that they are someone else. They lie, not only to others, but sometimes to themselves. Thus, most of human nature is merely deception. Sometimes even aspects of life we take for truthfulness, such as love or tragedy, are only because we cannot comprehend the whole situation. Sometimes, tragedy is for the good and love is the destroyers of hearts. Often the two are entwined, and joined by a third. Tragedy, beauty and love._

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